


This Dance We Must Do

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, F/M, Middle Ages, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Plague, Psychological Drama, Requited Love, Scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mysterious death of Aerys Targaryen leaves the throne to his eldest son. With power concentrated in his hand, Rhaegar chooses leniency to revenge for those who have been declared traitors. There is one thing he wants in return. Eddard Stark does not dare refuse.  </p><p>By bringing Lyanna Stark into his plan to take the throne, Rhaegar has created an insurmountable rift between himself and his lady wife. Elia Martell is convinced that her husband wishes to rid himself of her so he can continue his liaison with the Northerner lady he keeps close at hand.</p><p>Having failed to deliver the promised daughter, Lyanna knows very well that her only hope rests in the affection, whatever of it is left, that the King carries for her. She has sealed more than just her fate by running away with him. And if it is her wish that no one else lose their life for her folly, then by Rhaegar's side she must remain no matter what comes their way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Wylla pressed the wet cloth to the woman’s face, wiping away the beads of perspiration. She ought to have kept well away, she thought, dimly aware that the other woman standing at the foot of the bed was still speaking words of encouragement. How Wylla longed to shut the midwife up.

It had been three days; three gruelling days of sitting by the bedside and listening to sobs of pain. The girl was dying. It was clear. Her skin was ashen, her eyes were glazed over. In fact, Wylla doubted that she understood a thing that was being said to her. The cloth slid lower to one wet cheek. “She’ll not last, Madge,” she spoke over her shoulder to the midwife. Whatever had the Prince thought?

“Keep that wicked tongue of yours in your head,” the midwife replied without an ounce of delicacy. “Come, m’lady, one more time, push.”

A weak cry passed the girl’s lips, but somehow she managed to see the instructions through. Not that it was of much help. As soon as the babe was without, she fell back against her pillows, panting and weeping. From the end of the bed there came no sound.

She had been right. Wylla had known the moment the kingsguard carried her up the steps and into the bedchamber. It had been clear that there was no pleasant ending in sight.

Wylla abandoned the labouring woman’s side and peered at what the midwife held. She gasped. Poor lady. “We should wrap the child up,” she said softly. Then, gazing at the Northerner girl, she heaved a sigh. “Hardly seems fair.”

“What do you care,” the older woman snapped. “You said she wouldn’t make it anyway.”

“Not with the heavy bleeding she won’t,” Wylla assured the other. “I’ve seen it with my own mother. A few days of fever, mayhap a week or two and she won’t be of this world any longer.”

The door was pushed open so suddenly that the two women jumped. The white clad figure in the doorway looked at the two of them. “Well? What goes on here?” the man questioned. The look on his face spoke of impatience.

“The child had arrived,” the old midwife said, holding the unmoving bundle up, “and has gone as well.” The last part was whispered, presumably for the benefit of the mother who might yet be able to retain words and meaning. “The mother is in a bad way as well, ser. ‘Twould best serve her to find a maester.”

The man motioned for the bundle to be brought to him. He took the child from the hands of the midwife and gazed down at the small, blue face. “A stillbirth?”

“Aye,” the second woman confirmed. “Couldn’t do nothing for either of them.”

It must have happened when the girl fell, Wylla reckoned. That was when the bleeding had started. It was a wonder she’d not been infected and had lived as long as she had. What had she been thinking, running up and down the stairs?

“It would seem my services are no longer needed,” the midwife cut in. “I shall leave after I am done cleaning.”

A sharp nod of the head was the answer received. The kingsguard took the child away. None of the women presented protested, least of all the youngest one who seemed to be fading fast. Madge returned to her business, stripping away wet and bloodied cloth and clothes. Wylla helped as well. But she truly did not see the point. “We should just put a clean dress on her.” Not that it would matter. She would bleed all over that one as well.

But Madge was doing something else. Wylla turned here away and saw to bundling the stained sheets together. The old woman coughed and Wylla heard her shoes moving against the floorboard. She duped the linens on the ground and pulled out clean ones. The lady would not be able to appreciate it, very likely, but it was still their duty. And there was some pretty coin to be had for it.

“Do you think she’ll wake up?” Wylla questioned suddenly, turning around with an armful of pristine sheets.

Madge shrugged. “Depends on her own strength. She has cheated death once. Let us see if the gods shall be good enough a second time.”

It did not look as if the gods much cared for her. Wylla looked at her face as she held her up for Madge to spread the sheets. The face that had started a war, Men and their prides, she thought with a hint of distaste. If she died, she did so because no one ever listened to her. A pity, she might have had a pleasant life.

And if she lived, ‘twould be just as bad as having died. She had lost her family and most likely her lands. She’d not been able to give the daughter she had promised. And hurtful words had been said when the Prince had left. If the girl lived, she would spend her days wishing she had died.

Wylla’s eyes fell upon one of the pillows. Death would be a kindness.

“Come along, Wylla, and leave the lady to her rest,” Madge instructed, pulling on the other’s hand with surprising force. For a moment, Wylla hesitated, still eyeing the pillow. She could do nothing with Madge there however. The notion was abandoned as she was dragged away. It seemed she could be of no aid the girl.

“Madge, ‘tis unkind. You could end her misery,” Wylla complained softly.

In response, Madge slapped the back of her head. “I save lives, not take them. And if you ever say anything of this like again I shall personally cut that tongue of yours out.”

Wylla huffed but offered no more words. It was no business of hers in any case what happened to Lyanna Stark. She had simply felt sorry for the girl, to have been used as she had ad then left at the mercy of fate. What was done could not be undone

Madge walked in front of her, hurrying own the spiralling stairs. It seemed both of them were eager to leave behind the tower and the tragedy that was to come. For what need would the Dragon Prince have of the lady now? Certainly, that was the question.

Barely blinking at the three men who were lighting a fire, Wylla led Madge to her cart. The older woman left without saying much else.

“Wylla,” the lord commander called out, “find us something to put the ashes in.”

Indeed, she should. Who would dare take from the great Prince the fruit of his labour. But Wylla knew well enough what it would be to go against the word of the White Bull. The woman nodded her head and re-entered the tower in search of that which might be fitting to hold the ashes of a royal bastard.


	2. Little Lion Man

The Prince had won. Rhaegar Targaryen was coming back. Jaime kept his eyes upon the madman that sat the throne. His Queen had been given a seat at the foot of the large stairs and despite the bruised cheek she sported, Rhaella truly looked joyful at receiving the news. And who wouldn't be? The perfect Dragon Prince was to returns with the traitors in chains.

If the Prince had a lick of sense, he would gather even half his armed forces within the dratted keep and cut off the Mad King where he stood. Alas that could not be done. The people would only frown upon a king who had killed his own kin. The gods were sure to curse him and the realm. As if the Seven Kingdoms were not already plagued with such hardships.

Princess Elia Martell lingered in the hall as well. Neither of her children were anywhere to be seen. Jaime suspected that she wished to protect them from their grandfather. It was well known throughout court that the King was less than pleased with his eldest son's offspring. The reason, nobody knew truly. And it hardly mattered.

He was a danger. The knowledge brought Jaime to his vows once more. He had promised before the Seven and the realm that he would obey this man, the man who until not very long past planned to send them all to the heavens with wildfire smoke. To think that anyone would be willing to sacrifice so many lives and for no reason whatsoever. Servants would live even in the event that the throne changed hands. But nay, he would see them all burn for the simple satisfaction of leaving his opponents with a bad aftertaste in their mouth and the scent of scorched meat in their nostrils.

If ever there was a man more deserving of death, Jaime had not heard of his. Instinctively, his hand travelled to the broadsword he carried. Green eyes flashes from one corner of the hall to the other. The armed men had mostly relaxed their stances, as if relieved. But they could not possibly know true relief. Not the one Jaime knew. They had little idea of what the King had planned, of what would have awaited them had the Prince failed.

Within the shadows a figure moved. Jaime's eyes trained upon it. It was Varys. The Spider, they called him and truly a name more fitting there could not have been. The man waded through the shadows, making his way past them into the light.

He approached the foot of the stirs until he stood before the Queen. Jaime listened to his report on the losses. What business was it of his how many losses there had been? The young Kingsguard continued to maintain his stone-like mien. as best if he heard and saw nothing at all.

King ordered for wine and food to be given out. meant to celebrate a victory he had taken no part in, the winning of a war that was of his own making as well.

Disgust made the Lannister's stomach churn unpleasantly. He was dismissed, ordered to take some rest by the man he owed his allegiance to. Jaime did not hesitate to do so. Prolonged exposure to the joy of such a creature could only make him ill, he told himself, gaze drifting unwittingly to the scorch marks upon the flagstone floors.

Jaime made his way out the doors, walking down the deserted hallway. His swordhand had locked around the handle of his weapon as thoughts of murder came with a vengeance. He wanted, more than anything else, at the moment, to return to the hall and run the King clean through. He wanted to never see a livid bruise upon the Queen's skin or red angry scratches running down her neck and arms. He wanted his words to matter, his vow to mean something more than the bitter taste of regret filling his mouth every time he happened to look at Rhaella Targaryen.

His grip relaxed and dropped away completely. His wants mattered not at all. He had sworn an oath. The reminder woke another kind of anger within him. Why could the man not be worthy of his position. Jaime thought not of past mistresses or of fits of rage. He thought of brutish behaviour, an ugliness of the mind that seldom was seen in the world.

At that point something sounded out from behind him. Jaime stopped in his tracks, frozen, a sense of awareness crawling through him. He looked over his shoulder. The person had not bothered to hide or rather had not meant to.

The Dornish Princess gave him a long look, as if to ask if she might join him. Jaime nodded slowly. Prince Rhaegar's wife approached him cautiously. There was anger and resentment hidden behind her placid expression. Though for different reasons than his, she too raged at the fate dealt to her.

"Have you thought about it?" she questioned as they continued their way down the corridor side by side.

What Jaime noticed with some perplexity was that he had finally outgrown her. The notion, so out of place, nearly tugged a smile from him. Still, he resisted. "I have my vows," he reminded her kindly. Vows that would not assuage his guilt when next he saw another bruise upon the Queen's flesh.

"Words," the Princess said dismissively. "Mere words. They mean nothing. No one would have to know. There are ways."

"Give me until nightfall," the Kingsguard insisted. She asked no small thing of him. And though he would like nothing better, Jaime could not make the decision lightly. Not with Rhaegar Targaryen returning.

"Very well," Elia allowed. "Until nightfall. You know where to find me." She stopped, forcing him to continue his road alone. Jaime did not look back at her. But he did hear her speak once more. "The choice is yours, Jaime Lannister. The sword is the one that carries power."

Nightfall came quick enough. Too much so for Jaime's mind. He feared the decision he had made and revelled in it in equal measure. The white cloak lay discarded upon the ground and his pristine garments had been thrown upon the bed with nary a thought.

Sitting upon a stool, clad in woollen breeches and a tunic, clothes that he had worn as Jaime Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock, the young man continued to sharpen his sword, dragging the whetstone upon the edges of his weapon, slowly, minutely, with such great care that one might think he wished to make ordinary steel into Valyrian fare. The heavy ringing of the tower bell marked the late hour.

The sound of the death knell dissipated slowly, ever so slowly. It was time.

Dragging himself to his feet, Jaime slashed through the empty air with strong swings. The steel sang.

He donned a dark cloak.

Without waiting a moment longer, he hurried past the doorway, before his conscience could get the best of him. Murder, despite its circumstances, was still just murder. The justification eased his mind a tad though. The cause was good, even if the means were questionable.

Finally, after such long a time, Jaime could be the knight he wished to be. The man he had always wanted to be. Even if no one knew it. Even if no recognition would ever be given to him. He would have the knowledge of his deed and it would suffice.

As she had promised the Princess waited for him just beyond the gate of Maegor's Holdfast. In her left hand she held a small lantern. A half burned candle spread about the whisper of a light. In its dimness he could barely make out the deep brown of the cloak the woman wore, but her skin shone with the same golden quality as always. He did not bow to her, he did not even give as much as a single nod. Neither did she.

Jaime glanced about, to make sure they were truly alone. With the war ranging, most of the keep's guards had followed the prince. Those who remained guarded the Red Keep's gates and they were spread thin. Then gods only knew what would have happened if news had come of the Prince's defeat. Assured that no one beside them was there, the young man parted his cloak enough for the steel to be touched by the warm light.

It was then that the Princess nodded. Her face covered and unseen, she turned away from Jaime and began walking. He followed her into Maegor's Holdfast, both quiet as ghosts. How fitting, Jaime could not help but think. They would be creating a ghost of their own after all.

The Princess stopped before the unguarded solar door. She spoke not a word, yet placed the candle on the ground and removed her cowl. "Blow the candle out when you are done," she instructed, leaving unsaid that he should not linger long. The candle had almost burned out.

And then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Jaime wondering if he'd dreamt it all. But nay, the candle still burned and he stood before the solar. It must have all been real. He breathed in deeply, hand touching the cool wood surface. It was time, his mind announced.

Jaime pushed the door open and entered the chamber. The King was clearly surprised at the intrusion, beady eyes widening at the sigh of company. He staggered to his feet, tangled hair falling around his like a curtain.

"Who are you?" the monarch demanded, voice trembling with fear, or mayhap sleep. Jaime could not tell, for his blood roared in his hears and his heartbeat thundered. "Look here, wretch," the man spat, "you will tell me who you are this instant or I will have you hanged."

Instead of answering through words Jaime pulled back his cowl, allowing his face to come in plain sight. The King made a small sound of disbelief. "Lannister. What are you doing here? I sent you away to rest." The worry was starting to evaporate. Jaime allowed him to continue without interruption. "A more conscious man I have yet to see." The madman sat back down.

Jaime shut the door at a long last. He barred it as well. The Princess had assured him that no one lingered that late in the hallways, but he had to be sure there were to be no interruptions. He had worked too hard to be discouraged by footfalls coming from without.

"So? Tell me, boy. What are you doing here?" the King asked once more, as Jaime turned around to look at him.

The sight was truly one taken from night terrors. The tangles hair aside, the Mad King sported a thin, emaciated face that spoke of long suffering. He was not yet in his old age, but wrinkles cut across the expanse of pale skin making him seem at least a decade older than he truly was. How could a man with such an important role allow himself top live like an animal. Jaime's eyes fell to the long fingernails, coiling in on themselves.

"I thought to return to my duty as you say, Your Majesty," he finally answered.

"Just like your father," Aerys noted. "Duty, duty, duty. Is that all that exists to you, I wonder." He seemed amused for whatever reason. "Nay, indeed. There was Joanna as well." The mention of his mother brought a tenseness within him. Jaime struggled to keep from grabbing for his sword. He wished to know what was next to be said. "Fair Joanna. Such a pity she died in a pool of her own blood."

It was mayhap the first time he'd heard the King be sympathetic to any sort of tragedy. Had he truly cared for Joanna. Jaime could not be certain. Yet even if he did, his sins were too many and the revelation much too late to be of any aid.

With a slow motion, Jaime drew his cloak away so he might unsheathe his sword. The King was lost in his mumbling at the moment and failed to notice. But Jaime was certain his luck would not last long. As if the gods themselves had shouted out a warning, the ruler of the Seven King glanced at his just then. Eyes fell upon the flash of steel and he pushed himself back.

Jaime lunged forward, thrusting the sword towards his quarry even as a half-groan made it past the King's lips. The sword embedded itself into soft flesh, cutting through skin and tearing through muscle. The only distance between them was kept by the desk. Without taking his eyes off his victim or loosing his grip of the sword's handle, Jaime jumped upon the table.

The sword moved upwards with him and Aerys' head slammed against the wall with a sound of pain. Jaime's hand pressed upon his mouth to keep the yells from tumbling out. Though he reckoned the shock was so great his precautions were not needed. Yet why take such a risk.

"Too long," he said, "too long have you plagued this realm and too long have you tortured innocents." His other hand moved away from the sword, barely registering the feeble grasp the King hand on his wrist. He shook away the man's hold and caught his head in a strong grip. "The time has come to end this."

He pulled the man's head forwards and then slammed it back into the wall with such force that skin split and blood splattered upon the wall. But Jaime was not deterred. He repeated the process even as Aerys struggled to escape. This had to be the end; it just had to. The King's frame slumped against his attacker. Jaime paused.

His own grip relaxed and the young man pulled away to survey the result of his work.

Without support the body slid down the wall until it finally fell over. For a moment Jaime stared at the corpse, almost awed. The King was dead. Shocked laughter bubbled past his lips. The King was well and truly of the other world. The body oozed blood. Jaime noticed the red liquid spreading over the stone floors towards him.

"I shan't be branded a murderer," he murmured, stepping backwards. Empty eyes stared up at him. "I shan't," Jaime hissed. He had done what he had to and he did not regret it.

Looking down at his hands, he finally noticed that the sword was not there and small droplets of crimson painted his skin. Jaime wiped his hand on his leg and bent down to retrieve his sword. The steel was stained as well. He hid it within his cloak.

Out of sight, out of mind. If only it were that easy. Alas, it was not. He remained as he was, eyes drawn to the carnage. It was riveting, for whatever reason. The gods knew why he had not done it earlier. It might have saved a lot of lives.

He hadn't however. And the immutable past was not to be pondered long over.

Finally able to draw himself away, Jaime left the dead man upon the ground and lid the bar out of place, opening the door. The candle was still next to the door, where the Princess had left it. Jaime was without in a blink of an eye. He picked the candle up and blew it out.

A soft sound could be heard somewhere ahead as if in response to his actions. Jaime stared suspiciously in that direction. There was nothing to be seen however. The whole smaller keep seemed truly deserted. Jaime leaned back against the door with a small sigh of relief.

The respite was at its close, as the young knight came to find after a mere few second. The sound, whatever it had been, returned. Closer. Louder. And it came from within the solar. Terror struck the young lion.

What if he had been mistaken and the King yet lived. In his mind Jaime conjured an image of the injured man crawling about the room, making his way slowly to the door. So vivid was his vision that even the trail of blood behind the body glistened. Nausea filled him. He imagined the bend form using the wall as support, rising steadily to his feet and pressing against the door way.

Muscles locked tight, Jaime whirled around to stare at the heavy slab of wood, the only object between him and his broken vows. A creak filled his mind, shrill and terrible as the cry of the dying. It pierced his skull.

Jaime covered his ears to protect himself, but it was no use. He could still hear it. It was there. Behind the door. The King waited for him to come back. He waited to yell out for guards, or have them found come morning. And Jaime would pay then.

What had been done to the rebels would be child's play.

He could not stand it. Jaime drew in a shuddering breath, blood-smeared fingertips touching the door once more. His heart beat wildly in his chest, pounding heavily. He had to see. He had to make sure he'd left behind a body. The knight closed his eyes and tried to calm himself; his hands were shaking.

The door was pushed open with a strong shove and Jaime stumbled within a second time. But, to his horror, the solar was empty. There was no Mad King lying upon the ground. Wildly, the young man looked around within the shadows, expecting the gored body to jump out at any time.

But he was alone. Blood still stained the floor, but the King was nowhere to be seen. Resisting the temptation to run his eyes, Jaime walked to one of the windows. He peered down. There was nothing he could make out in the thick darkness of the night.

It was best to just go, he decided, an inexplicable fright wrapping cold fingers around his heart, squeezing tightly. He could not remain where he was. Jaime turned towards the door once more and fled from the room.

If they found the madman dashed upon the ground come daylight, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This was a very difficult chapter to write. Mostly because I'm not good at writing murder. But hopefully it's not very obvious.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Jaime is also a character I've little experience with. Maybe some of you, who are more versed, can give some pointers.**
> 
>  
> 
> **So, tell me what you thought of the chapter. :)  
> **  
> 


	3. Black Flies

The metallic tang of blood lingered in Ned’s moth long after the split lower lip healed. The despair remained however. It lurked in the dark shadows of his mind, rearing its ugly head t every opportunity, restless and vicious with a taste for the macabre.

It certainly did not help that he’d been chained for most of the journey with scant water and even less food. But that was the fate of the defeated. Ned supposed he ought to count himself among those of good fortune that the Prince had not taken his head, as was the man’s right. Relief was a tired whisper of acknowledgement that the King’s son, while having captured and chained his foes, did not go after their families. At least Catelyn was safe. She would not be made to suffer his failure, no more than she would need concern herself with fulfilled her duty to him from the point onwards. He was a dead man in a sense.

The Red Keep towered before them, large and impressive. It was likely the hunger and thirst that made a giant out of what ought to have been a mere jest in comparison to Winterfell. It was still chilling to the bones to have before the site of his father and brother’s death.

They entered the keep.

Was Lyanna there, Ned wondered, rising his eyes to the flying banner of the Dragon. Was his sister somewhere in there, wilting as all winter roses did beyond the Neck? He wished to see her again. To ask her about a great many matters. Had Brandon been right to claim the Prince had abducted her? Had father died in vain? Had a war been fought for the whims of a child?

It did not sound like Lyanna Stark. But Ned had never imagined he would be Lord of Winterfell either. He had never thought he would have his brother’s bride and yet had her he did. The world threw all manners of surprises to the living. Only the dead rested. That he had not considered though, that his sister might be among the resting. He had not wanted to. Not with father gone; not with Brandon gone. She had to be alive. Lyanna Stark had to be alive; at lest she if no one else.

Ned needed to know that come what may, he could at the very least assure himself of her wellbeing. The Prince might well love her as was being claimed. Or he might be using her for her youth and fertility as other said. It might even be that she was a mere pastime for him, a stepping stone towards something grander. But to Ned she would always be his sister. Rhaegar Targaryen might have crossed swords with Robert for the girl, but they held little claim. There was no blood between them.

The cart drew to a halt and one of the guards approached the door. Behind him came two other men, holding up their swords in warning. As if any of the prisoners had the slightest of chances to escape. Certainly it would not be Jon Arryn with his broken wrist that would attempt to swing a sword at the guards. Nor would Robert with his oozing wounds. Ned himself sported a long cut along his leg. It was a surprise in itself that they yet lived. Others had had less luck and they were rotting in chains along the Kingsroad. 

The metal door swung open with a shrill cry and they were ordered out. Ned was pulled by one of the men, resulting in his foot catching upon an edge and pain erupting in his leg. A shuddering cry left his lips as he crashed to the ground. He looked up into the face of a grinning guard and was caught completely by surprise as the tip of a sword made it under the man’s chin.

“The Prince was clear about the treatment of his hostages.” He recognised the voice. It was Jon Connington. “You will pay for you insolence, foot soldier.” It was still he who bent to retrieve the silent wolf and keep him upright when he made it to his feet. “Lord Stark.” ‘Twasn’t as much a greeting as an acknowledgement.

Ned shuddered. He was not Lord Stark. He was never supposed to have inherited the title. There was no reply to be had from the injured man. Connington mere passed him to another man. His companions were unloaded as well, but they were not led away together. Ned would have asked after their whereabouts or even where it was that he was being taken. But his throat could only manage to work convulsively. No sound came out despite his best attempts.

Thus he was forced to endure the silence for the guard helping him was not prone to speech, nor to doling out information. It became clear to him where he was being led after a few moments of seemingly listless floating through the ether. The dungeons were to be his home.

The cell he was led to looked much like the holding cells of Winterfell. Straw had been lain on the ground, a pile of it sat in one corner arranged in a great lump. Presumably that was to be the bed. A pail stood in another corner. He was pushed within and the door was shut on him with a loud thud, the metal scratching against the stone floor.

There was a small window through which sunrays or moonshine could slither through, but it was not big enough for anything but his arm to make it through. The width, however, was generous enough. At least he would know the passage of the time. Grateful for the small mercy, Ned did his best to hobble towards the straw pile. He lowered himself upon it, facing the high ceiling and closed his eyes, exhausted and lightheaded.

He never knew when it was that sleep took him. But consciousness came back with a vengeance and a loud sound that could wake the dead.

His smarting head throbbed as the grating noise invaded the silence. He opened his eyes in time to see the door opening and a shadowed figure stepping in. By the weak light, Ned determined that night had fallen. He tried to sit up, but was forced back down as hands pushed against his shoulders.

“Lie back down,” a smooth voice ordered. The man was unfamiliar. By the torchlight, Ned could make out the face of a young man with curling light hair and striking dark eyes. “I shall look at your wounded leg,” the man announced, going for said leg. “Remain as still as you can.”

The wound had been bandaged after the fighting was done. But as all wartime treatment went, it had been rushed and careless, enough to keep him alive, but nothing more. It could well be infected. And from the look on the man’s face as his boot was cut away and the bandages unwrapped, he rather thought it might be.

His skin felt hot and itchy now that it had been exposed to air. Ned tried to move the leg but was rewarded with a wave of pain. “Be still,” came the order once more. “This bears cleaning if you don’t wish to lose it.”

Lose his leg or not, what did it matter. Ned made no reply. The young man didn’t seem to need any though. He simply called out for something and the door opened once more. A slighter figure came in, clutching a candlestick and a carafe. This one was a woman, clad in grey. A silent sister. As per her vows, she spoke not a word, but knelt net to the young man.

Ned felt his leg being lifted up, his heel resting upon something cool and hard. Heat prickled his sin a few moments later. He looked to see a flickering light near the end, where the woman sat. The next thing he knew was that he swam in a sea of excruciating pain and a third person had entered to force something down his throat.

They were cleaning the wound. Ned could make out little besides spot of white that moved strangely along the wound. He was less inclined to even more after another dose brew flooded his mouth. Somehow he bore through the ordeal, the pain growing duller and duller. Or was it he who had been given too much milk of the poppy? There was hardly any way to tell.

He knew not when they were done, nor when he slipped into oblivion once more. When next he came to he was alone and lying on his back, with a clean bandage wrapped around his wounded leg and a sour taste in his mouth. There was no sight to inspire the belief that anyone had been in his cell.

The door screeched as it opened to admit a man carrying a tray. Plain bread and water were placed before him and he was left to his meal.

It was the strangest of things. He had thought he would be tortured, mauled, killed even. Yet he’d been proven wrong. But mayhap the King did not desire broken hostages. The madman was known for his cruelty. Very likely he enjoyed a slow decline more than a fast one. Disgust rolled in Ned’s stomach at the mere thought.

The more he remained within the four walls of his cell, the more he feared. Most days passed one like the other. The gaoler came and went without a word, not answering any sort of questions. After the fifth day, Ned stopped asking himself. He began thinking of manners of escape. Not many ideas came his way and very few were practical. It seemed that his end had come.

The sooner the better. If he was to remain much longer in captivity he feared for his sanity. What good would his sanity be to him when he was before the King though? Better to die a madman, unknowing of his fate. He wished the gods had claimed his mind and not his leg. The limb was useless anyway. For all it had been cleaned and bandaged, it hurt him in waking and sleeping hours alike. There was no peace. Without his wits, he might have been able to ignore it.

As it was, every single day was an endless wait for something to happen.

At a long last, after he knew not how long for the count had slipped from him, the young man came to his cell again. “I see you look better, Lord Stark,” he said pleasantly, a small smile curving his lips.

He was older than Ned by a few years at least. He wore no chain though. Simple robes clothed him and there was nothing distinctive about his features. This person had saved his life. For what purpose though? The Lord of Winterfell had little idea. It was likely better not to know in any event. 

“I have come to see to the bandage,” the stranger explained, keeling by his side once more. He undid the white gauze with careful movements and gazed for a long time at the red puckered flesh. “It heals well, my lord. You should be glad for it I was very nearly decided to have it cut off.” He looked at Ned then, dark eyes trained on his face. ”The King wishes to speak with you.”

A chill ran down his spine. Still, he kept to his silence, holding it like a knight did his shield. The young man did not attempt to coax him into speech. “I am to take you to him.” He helped Ned to his feet. For someone with a slender built he was quite strong, able to support his patient’s weight with apparent ease.

The gaoler sneered as they made their way past him. That was the most emotion Ned has seen from the man up until that point. Bewildered, he resumed his slow gait with the help of the visitor. They reached the stairs and climbed them carefully one by one. In his mind, Ned wondered if the King would only increase his punishment for keeping him waiting.

If so, he ought not to bother. There was no fate he could devise that was worse than what he had suffered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Ned thrown in the mix for flavour...
> 
> I know there was very little detail given here, but I'm saving it for the next chapter where you'll finally see...guess who?
> 
> If you guessed Tywin... then, erm, nope. :)
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll try for something longer next time, but I make no promises.


	4. It Lingers

Lyanna opened heavy eyes. A dull throbbing pain spread throughout her prone form, stabbing like a thousand needles into thin limbs, the sting exploding by and by into sharply flaring pain. Her mouth was dry as a husk, lips pressed together.

Disoriented, her head snaps to the side as her ears are filled with the sound of wood scraping against cool, smooth rock. As if in a dream, a silhouette approached her, back to a window. The light swarming in creates an unbearably bright backdrop. Spots appear behind the she-wolf’s eyes. Instinctively she closes them and tries to raise her hand so she might shield her face. To her consternation, the limb refuses to budge. Her eyes opened.

“M’lady, you are awake.” The face of an unknown woman appeared before her. She was somewhere between two ages, with curling dark hair and wide blue eyes. Lyanna might have been fooled for just a moment into calling her Wylla until these small facts registered.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, as realisation crept upon her, the she-wolf forced herself into a sitting position, disregarding the yelp of surprise springing from the other’s lips. “M’ lady, you cannot…” the rest trailed off as Lyanna pushed the covers off of her body.

“Where is my babe?” The woman before her startled to hear her speak, eyes widening. She rapidly gazed towards the door, as if contemplating making a quick escape. Lyanna was having none of it, however. “My babe,” she repeated, her voice harshly crackling like a whip over the other’s ears.

Where was the child? Lyanna did remember, she did, falling over. A mistake born out of anger. Rage simmering beneath her skin, she’d been pushed into an act the young woman regretted. Deeply so. The she-wolf moved about, trying to bring her body, resisting as it was, to the edge of the bed so that she might climb down.

She had to find the babe.

“M’lady,” the woman interrupted the process, taking Lyanna by the shoulders without so much a warning, “you mustn’t move. You are not yet well. I pray you.”

The door opened and in entered a young man. Lyanna looked up at his, while at the same trying to get the unknown woman to release her. “That will be all, you may leave,” he dismissed the servant woman and sat down upon the edge of the bed. “My lady, you must keep still. Your body is yet weak.”

“I do not care about that. I want to know where my child is,” she pressed onwards, ignoring the twinges of pain attacking her.

The man sighed softly. He too placed one hand upon her shoulder, upsetting her balance and pushing her backwards into the pillow. “My lady, it grieves me to tell you this, the babe did not survive.”

As if struck, the she-wolf’s body froze in shock. Her child was dead; the thought rang out in her mind like a death knell. Fingers clenched around the furs upon the bed, she attempted to force herself into speaking. Her babe was gone.

It was then that it registered, with finality, deafening and chilling, that she was no longer in the chambers of her tall tower, but somewhere else. The lack of familiarity produced within her a wave of fear. That had not been the pact, to have her child gone. She was to have given the Prince a little Visenya in exchange for freedom. That had been the promise between then, that Lyanna would birth a tiny dragonling and Rhaegar would find her a vessel to take her to Essos. Certainly she’d not wished for a war, for death, for aught else but to be allowed to sail to the Free Cities.

Yet if she had no daughter, then it must follow that the pact between her and the Prince had fallen through as well. Lyanna’s eyes drifted towards the door. She wished, quite foolishly, to question the man before her. To ask whether Rhaegar had come to see her, what it was that he’d said and what could be done. For she knew well enough the laws to know that the loss fell upon her shoulders.

After all, she had sworn him faith in front of a septon and as her lord husband, he could well choose to rid himself of her. Hadn’t Maegor the Cruel slain his wives for little else but their inability to give him children? The she-wolf gulped softly. Would Rhaegar take a leaf out of that one king’s page and see her head parted from her shoulders?

She’d not meant to fall down. If he would listen to her explanation, he might not blame her, not in a harsh enough manner to necessitate an executioner’s blade. The young woman opened her mouth, tongue darting out to touch the dried skin of her lips. She must ask, Lyanna decided after a moment more of consideration.

“Has His Grace come to see me?” she asked softly, voice cracking. The effort of speech made her throat throb.

“The King came as soon as you were brought to the Red Keep, my lady.” All blood drained from her face upon hearing those words. The madman had been by to see her? Yet the man before her, upon taking notice of her reaction joined his explanation with, “Rhaegar Targaryen the first of his name rules the Seven Kingdoms now.”

“How?” It was hardly the most eloquent response she could muster, but it was the one that came to mind. His father would have had to die.

“His predecessor mysteriously disappeared,” the unknown man answered simply. “But ‘tis not what I wish to speak to you of, my lady. Now listen to me. The birth of your babe was complicated by a fall as I understood it. The issue is, my lady, that a lot of damage has been done and time is needed so that you may heal. We have done the best we could, yet I fear the chances of another babe to be born are slim.”

“I am not to have children again?” she gasped, incredulous. Lyanna liked children well enough and Visenya aside, she had wished for more after her return from wherever her ship would have taken her. She was just a woman like any other.

“I would hesitate to say never,” the other encouraged softly. “But my lady would need something of a miracle to manage it.”

In any other words, her womb was empty and dry and would remain so until the end of her life. Tears gathered in Lyanna’s eyes. She bit down on her lower lip, reminding herself that crying solved nothing. And yet, even as she did so, droplets of salty water ran down her cheeks unchecked. But the stranger was already going on with his duties. He pressed a hand to her abdomen, applying pressure. “Tell me when it hurts, my lady,” he instructed, pressing a bit harder.

“Everything hurts,” the she-wolf moaned pathetically, pushing his hand away. “Leave me be,” she ordered without an inch of hesitation. A child by the King she might not have, but through her marriage certainly it had to be that she could order one maester around.

“Mayhap later,” the man concluded, standing to his feet. “My lady, pray do not exert yourself. It can only bring more harm.”

Lyanna snorted at the sentiment. What more harm could it possibly bring? As a woman, her use was goner. And if that was no longer there, then it would follow that she must rest upon the political value of the match that had been made. She knew Rhaegar well enough to have understood that affection was not quite what he had for her. Charming as he was, Lyanna was well aware that tolerance could only be pushed so far before it snapped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar looked at the man before him. “And she is coherent?” he questioned, letting go of the parchment he’d been holding, climbing to his feet. It had been days since she’d been brought to King’s landing and all that she’d done was linger in her deep sleep. Pycelle had suggested that she was too far gone to be helped and that it might serve to send her back along with Lord Stark.

The King had refused to believe that for even a moment. Not even Elia had been able to convince him, despite her best attempts. And he was glad for it, he was glad to have exercised some patience and have the knowledge that Lyanna was finally awake.

“I would say that coherence is there, Your Majesty.” The answer was pleasing enough. Rhaegar dismissed the man with a wave of the hand. There was little else the acolyte could tell him that hadn’t already been said.

When Arthur had told him about what had happened, he could hardly believe his ears. Aye, the she-wolf was reckless and a bit too eager to find trouble, but for all that he’d considered her good enough match, attributing the flightiness to age, not character. He wondered at times whether she had done it on purpose.

It was difficult to believe that any woman would take a tumble down the stairs purposefully, yet one could never know. Her reaction seemed to suggest otherwise. All matters would be solved soon enough, the king told himself. The realm needed rebuilding and for that the Crown needed to show a united front. Whatever was to happen, it must not affect the image presented to the people.

All that he had done could simply not be thrown away. Lyanna Stark was now his lady wife. Whether he still thought it wise or not, was a matter that bore discussion at a later date. For the moment, he needed to keep her within the Red Keep and come to some understanding with her brother. If the North lend its support, then all matters would be easier to solve on the front of diplomacy. All that Rhaegar needed to do was to find the quickest method to bind them all together. A pact within which to have the realm functioning. It was no easy feat, not at all with his father’s deeds behind him, looming like a dark shadow waiting to fall upon him.

Shrugging the thought away, the King resolved to speak to the Queen finally. He had kept her waiting long enough and it was time she knew what his decision was, to answer her ultimatum, as it were.


	5. Glass Houses

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar looked at his erstwhile wife, holding their son close to her, peering up at him with her face a stonewall. “Now you wish to speak to me, Your Majesty?” she questioned, the ink-black of her eyes lit from within. He could feel her anger. And of course that Elia being Elia would hardly allow the insult to go by. “May we remain here or shall we make for Lady Lyanna’s chambers?”

“My lady wife is resting,” he replied curtly, moving towards the pair of them. He placed a hand atop his son’s soft curls and smiled down at the child. “It would serve for naught to jolt her, would it? Jealousy does not suit you, Elia.”

“Jealous? I? Of her?” The woman chuckled softly. “You make as if you’ve hurt anything other than my pride. I will not play second fiddle to any woman, Your Majesty. I am your only lady wife, by the laws of gods and man.” Their son shifted slightly, thrusting one hand out. Rhaegar held out his finger for the boy to wrap his fist about it. Aegon pulled, hard.

“Nay. You are my Queen.” The denial had the desired effect. Elia snarled up at him, delicate features darkening. He blinked down at her unaffected.

“There is a difference in your mind, husband?” And there it was, the shrewd, indomitable and frankly somewhat incomprehensible Dornish pride. He smiled yet again. “You find this amusing. It would not be so if our roles were reversed.”

“That might well be, my Queen. You Dornish women are known for taking many lovers. I have yet to hear the case of one taking, say, a couple of spouses. I would indeed worry at such a lack of concern for earlier tradition.” Her response was to purse her lips and shake her head. “One spouse is more than enough for any man,” he allowed in the end. “But I have already taken the girl in. If I were to send her back, I would be doing her a great ill.” It was not so much a matter of wanting Lyanna to remain at his side, as wanting Lyanna properly cared for. “Her brother would keep matters quiet within his presence, but you know very well his duties might take him away from her. What then?”

“You did not force her,” his wife pointed out. “She was willing to give you a child. She was willing to leave her brother and come with you. She participated because she wished to.”

“And yet none of us have anticipated this outcome. Understand that I cannot and will not leave her to fend for herself.” He straightened and took his finger out of Aegon’s grasp. “The law provides that the king may wed according to the old custom. I mean to speak again my vows to her.”

“And when she gives you a son and my child is slain, then I suppose you shall be pleased.” A valid concern. Rhaegar sighed. “What, have I said aught I was not supposed to?”

“It is unlikely that she will have children again, Elia. But if she does, and the child is a son, he will be put in such a position as to not be a threat. You speak as if there is no solution. Lyanna and I will speak of this and I will let you know what we have decided. In the meantime, I want you to assume your duties.” Elia stood to her feet. “No one will harm our children. You have my word.”

“She has your words as well.” And might be that was what rankled. But Rhaegar had already explained. He would not do so a second time. “If I am to back this decision of yours, I need more of an assurance. It is all good and well of you to say that I shall be Queen and not she, but might be Lady Lyanna wished for the position.”

Ludicrous. Lyanna wanted to be queen about as much as he wanted the ague. “Her written word then. Would that do?”

“And that of her brother’s,” his wife supplied, her mouth falling into a mutinous line at his hesitation. Ned Stark had fairly begged to be allowed to see his sister and take her back to Winterfell. He would not like let alone that Lyanna was to remain in King’s Landing, not to even mention that she would be a glorified mistress essentially. If that was what it took however.

“And her brother’s,” he agreed. “I will not demand that you pretend to enjoy her presence or that you be her friend, but Elia, I do require that you maintain your composure at all costs.” The woman nodded and Rhaegar did trust that she was more than capable of it. A woman had to be if she was to survive court. One could only hope Lyanna would adapt as well.

“Have you seen her?” his wife questioned after a brief pause. Rhaegar took note of the way her hold on the babe changed and the fact that she held herself slightly less rigidly. “They are already whispering that she has incurred your wrath. I can be as pleasant as Myrish lace, but in the end my support does not matter to her.”

“If I were to concern myself with what they think, I would have been dead a long time ago.“ He gave her one last nod before turning on his heel and making his way without the chamber. Elia was not entirely incorrect in her assessment.

Even if under the law he could offer her some protection people would still talk, not within his hearing, but they would and he had to prepare the girl somehow. Whatever one thought of the situation, he had to make it so that the guilt appeared his. It would help, of course, if Elia did as she said she would.

Ser Gerold gave him a bow, standing before the doors just as he came out. Behind him Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan maintained their positions. “Your Majesty, I was asked to pass this onto you.” He held out a piece of rolled paper.

Rhaegar took it from his hand and opened it. At the very least the acolyte was constant in his supervision and not at all lacking in gray matter. He simply made a sound of acknowledgement in his throat and gave the paper back to Ser Gerold. To the other two he said, “Come, we leave for the gardens.”

In the gardens, as promised, awaiting his arrival on a stone bench, Lyanna sat beneath a large tree, engulfed in its shadow. She made to stand as he approached, but Rhaegar shook his head. “Sit, my lady.” He occupied the space next to her and caught her face between his hands without much ceremony. “You look flustered. Why is that?”

“The journey down the stairs.” She winced. “I find it exhausting to complete even that simple task.” The hand that she’d raised to place on his own, presumably, fell back in her lap. “Your Majesty, I have yet to congratulate you on your good fortune and express my condolences.” He blinked slowly. “For your predecessor.”

Rhaegar looked over his shoulder at the three Kingsguards. “Leave us.” The command took only the youngest by surprise, but all three of them disappeared from sight. He turned back to Lyanna and brushed his thumb against her cheek slowly. “Let us not pretend amongst ourselves, my lady. Neither of us feels particularly saddened.” She nodded after a small moment of unease. He let go. “What happened at the tower?”

Her shoulder slumped, the downward roll catching his attention. He supposed he ought to comfort her somehow and offer reassurance, but he would rather have her words than the other way around at the moment. “I overheard them talking about my father and brother. And the King. And the fire. I was angry and hurt. You had promised that no ill would befall my family.”

“You thought I did not send the raven to your father?” She gave a small nod. “I sent out three of them. Little did I know that I should have sent one to your brother, with a full explanation.”

“Brandon has always done as he wished.” Hesitantly, she reached one hand out, fingers trembling lightly. “I slipped down the stairs. I only wished to go without. Fortune was kind to me, Ser Dayne must have heard the sound. Our daughter was not so fortunate.” Such a simple explanation. “I did manage to hear after that father had written to me. I did not pay it much mind, busy as I was.”

He placed his palm beneath hers, allowing the slight fingers to wrap around his hand. Rhaegar did not hold her back, but instead wrapped his other arm loosely around her back, fingers splaying upon the material of the cloak. “If I had sent that letter a little faster.”

”Could you have saved them?” her voice cracked upon the last syllable and he looked away from her face.

For a moment he considered lying to her. It would make her feel better. But then, that was something a man in love might do. Better not to confuse her. “Your father, might be, had I arrived in time. But your brother was rightly accused of treason. I am sorry.”

Her grasp on his hand became near painful in its intensity. He could have still easily stood to his feet and left her there, but Rhaegar chose to allow her head to fall on his shoulder and her tears to soak into his own garb. “Have you seen your brother yet?” She looked up, tearful gaze resting on his face. “I take that as a nay then.”

“He lives?” Had she been under the impression that he did not? Rhaegar nodded, brushing back a stray strand of hair that obstructed her view. “And he is hale?”

“He sustained minor injuries in battle, but they have been treated. Would you like to see him?” The momentary joy he caught in her face drained away but a moment later. The young woman shook her head.

“I could not possibly face him,” Lyanna muttered.

He should have let that be that, but Rhaegar could not, for some odd reason, leave the matter alone. He raised her chin lightly, forcing their gazes to meet. “You can face him. You should face him. Our decision has had unforeseen circumstances, but he is your brother still. And now you are my wife. If he disrespects you in any manner,” he trailed off and she gulped softly, “I will not maim him, my lady. But any action has its consequences.” He ended that with a soft kiss to the crown of her head, a silent encouragement.

“Then I should like to see my brother.” She had remained close to him in the meantime wrapping her arms around him as well. Rhaegar allowed her a few moments to calm herself and set her appearance to rights before he stood to his feet. He almost held out a hand but thinking better of it, he simply picked Lyanna up in his arms. “Your Majesty, you do not have to,” she murmured, chagrin in her voice.

“Only for a little while,” he responded, thinking that he might leave her in the care of Ser Gerold as he was undoubtedly the one who had brought her down. And with any bit of good fortune, the man would also understand that stairs were off-limits for the foreseeable future. He felt the tips of her fingers at the nape of his neck, nails scratching softly against his skin. Lyanna had simply rested her head against him once more after his words. He suspected she was still tired, which was why she was allowing the matter to go unchallenged.

One could but wonder at how the situation would develop in the coming moon turns.

Ahead, the three Kingsguards stood at attention, having perceived their approach.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Wasting Hours

 

 

 

 

 

 

He expected her to be different. Ned could not decide why that was. But he had expected that war would have left at least a scratch on that face, a face he knew well enough and not at all at once. She did not stand, but then he could not rightly expect that she might. The King had made it clear that she was no longer a Stark in anything other than origin.

“Lya,” he breathed out, instinctively reaching out as she held her own hand out towards him. “Lyanna.” He’d not meant to show anything to her that might put her on edge, but to be faced to face with her at long last left him an awkward mess.

Her hand touched his. “Ned.” It was not a question, yet it caught his attention nonetheless. His sister allowed the hesitation without as much as a word of censure. “I thought you might not come after all.” He bent down to wrap his arms around her, not entirely certain himself of what it was he was doing.

The King would not allow her to return. What had his words been? Ned struggled to recall the reply Rhaegar Targaryen had given him. _Take from a man his home and you have won yourself the bitterest of enemies._ If there was a clearer way of putting a message across, he did not know of it. “How could I not?” Pulling back, he looked upon the she-wolf, the brightness of her cheeks harsh against the pallor of recent ills. “I can no more abandon you than I can pull my heart out, sweet sister.”

Her mien changed briefly, a spark of something foreign corrupting the visage. “And yet pull it out you have. For me.” Gesturing towards an empty chair Lyanna invited him to sit. Just as she did so, the door to her bedchamber opened and Ser Jaime Lannister stepped within. He walked past Ned and placed something within Lyanna’s hands. Then without a word he left them. “I fear it is increasingly difficult to have words around these parts when one is to remain confined.” Her confinement, which Ned could well understand her dreading, had been imposition by her husband at the advice of his maesters. Ned had been allowed to hear their diagnosis. “His Majesty was so kind as to allow that I might make requests of him by this manner.” She did not read the words, instead placed the message upon the bed.

Brother and sister looked at one another in silence, moments trickling by. He supposed he’d not have gathered the courage to ask her aught had she filled the silence. “Why? Did the thought of wedding Robert put that much fright into you?”

Shoulders slumping, his sister offered him a sigh. “I fear no man, nor have I. The thought of becoming Robert’s bride made me sick, but I would have fain endure the slings and arrows of such a union had I a notion that it might have brought father’s hopes to fruition. I was made a better offered, Ned.”

“A war?” he questioned softly. It was not that he meant to hurt her, but how could it be that she saw this as the better offer? “He died for you.”

“Nay, he fought for me, that I will allow. But he died for Brandon’s foolish mistake. There was never supposed to be a war.” He startled. Lyanna must have read the surprise I n his face for she went on, nit sparing a breath. “Who would have followed Robert had he urged the armies to gather over me. Think, Ned, when were the marching orders given? I thought I was the one missing out with our dear maester to see me through the complications of politics. Did men beside his own follow Robert ? Or did lords decide to lend a hand?”

He had no response to that. “Does it not matter to you that our father is dead? That our brother has been slain for naught?”

“Do you spare the man that leaves his behind his vows, with a black cloak on his shoulders no less?” Her head fell into a soft nod. “I am but a woman, Ned. Some will claim this war was fought for me. Others shall look upon the King and whisper of greed. Many might try to find deeper meaning in these deeds and acts. And history shall judge us as it will. But for now, my husband won.”

“What if Robert had won?” It seemed to him the epitome of callousness to treat the situation with such cold-blooded affected clarity. “Would you then have claimed this war was fought for justice?”

“I should hope to be constant in my assessments. Had Robert won, I can promise you naught would have kept me from the grave. I thought I was doing us all a service, that I should be free to roam as I please and father should have the status he craved. Beyond that, I can do little but regret the circumstances of our reunion. Try not, my brother, to turn me against the man we call King. I have a life to live, Ned.”

“As do I,” he allowed after a few moments. “He will not allow your return to Winterfell.” She might well know, he considered only after he’d spoken the words. Lyanna pursed her lips. “I tried to persuade him.”

“I know all too well how stubborn he can be.” The hint of affection he detected in those words cut him.”As long as you may leave and take care of our home, I can only be grateful for it. I heard you wedded.”

“Brandon’s bride.” His wife, and yet he called her still Brandon’s, Ned sighed. “Lord Tully’s army was strong.” His ambitions twice as much. He wondered if Catelyn still regretted it. “We had need of men. She gave me a son.”

Lyanna’s hand touched briefly her own abdomen. He’d not thought to ask her of that, even as he’d heard the whispers. “I am glad to hear that.”

“She named him Robb.” It was supposed to honour Robert, flatter him upon his victory.

“He would have been born in the home of her father. Your bride had the right of it in naming a Southron child by a Southron name.” How quick on her feet his sister could be when it suited her. “But I expect that she will give you more children. Tullys are a hale lot.”

“What will you do?” The question must have caught her by surprise for Lyanna clutched at the sheets in the next moment as her lips moved to form a question, a mirror of his own. He did not repeat himself. “I do not expect His Majesty will allow your absence from court. King’s Landing is not particularly kind to mistresses.”

“A wife is not a mistress,” she pointed out.

“You must know how they see you,” he responded. “There will be those who take issue with this.” Some Dornish lords had already begun whispering. “Two cooks cannot stir the same pot.”

“I trust that the King knows what is best, Ned. He has his plans and in due time, I shall know more and I will share my knowledge with you. For now, it is sufficient that you know I stand safe where I am.” Where exactly that was, not even the gods knew, he was certain. “I see the look upon your face and I know that trouble brews.”

“No more than it did before,” he promised, standing to his feet. “Are you certain he is as stubborn as you say? If you asked, he might listen.” There had to be something of his sister left in the stranger before him.

But Lyanna shook her head. “If I asked him, I would likely wake to guards at the door. I have learned much about the man and I tell you, ‘tis the truth, he would sooner allow aurochs into his halls.” Aye, Ned could well imagine. He held back a manifestation of his regret. “We have lost limbs, Ned, but the heart and mind are not yet gone.” She remained seated even when he finally pulled from her and stood near the door. A lifetime ago she might have braved the pain. “If the gods are good, the limbs will grow.”

“You believe they are?” After all she’d been through, only Lyanna could reach such a conclusion.

“I believe there must be some compassion left for us. We live, do we not? Thus we have no choice but to carry on.” He would call that cruelty. But then again, the world had turned upside down. Who was to say his sister was not in the right? “Come see me again before you leave?”

“Every day, if you would have me.” She nodded her head. Ned did not understand whether she wished him there every day, or if she was thanking him for the gesture. He did not ask.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Rather late to have brought your armies, my good man. The war is ended,” Rhaegar pointed out, eyes upon Tywin Lannister. He knew what the man wanted. He knew his support would bear a heavy prince. And he knew as well that he needed the Rock. “What do you intend to do now that you are here?”

“I served your father during his reign. I see no reason to not serve the son as well.” Rhaegar saw plenty of them. He kept quiet for the moment. “House Lannister is faithful to the crown.” So faithful that it had waited until the fighting was done. Well, that was not fair, they had only waited until the last battle. He suspected that if one were to count the dead, they would find a few from the Westerlands. Little steps, Rhaegar reminded himself, eyes going back to Lord Tywin. “Whatever Your Majesty’s decision, my full support is accounted for.”

Lord Tyrell scoffed, eyeing the back of the Lion with distaste. Rhaegar waved his hand in dismissal. “The Lions have long been friends and allies to us. We would not doubt the word of those who are so close to us.” He looked at his Queen, sitting at the foot of the Throne, eyes upon the older man. “My Queen, if you would be so kind.”

Elia stood and clasped the man’s hand in her own. “As a token of this very sentiment, we shall be very glad to have you in our midst once more.” How well she acted. He supposed it came almost naturally to her who had been raised to it. “Might be we shall even have Lady Cersei, if my lord is agreeable.” Best to keep that one on a short leash, Rhaegar thought, recalling earlier warnings.

Tywin said naught at all, but bowed away, allowing the path to another one of Rhaegar’s lords. Mace Tyrell pranced to the foot of the throne, giving by far more attention to his Queen. His son, still a squire to Rhaegar’s understanding, remained a few paces behind as the father made his bows. “I hear you have proven valour and skill in the Battle of Ashford, my lord. The Crown is pleased.” Now to find a way of promoting Lord Tarly to a better position.

“Your Majesty, the Reach would never forsake its vows.” Indeed, he considered, in the same manner its lord did not forsake good food and rich wine. He gave a shallow nod. Lord Tyrell prattled on as Rhaegar beckoned the man’s firstborn over.

“Tell me, squire, whom did you serve under?” The boy, for he was no more than that, puffed his chest as he readied himself to answer.

“Under Lord Paxter Redwyne, Your Majesty. My lord remains at Storm’s End, however.” Aye, keeping charge of the new lord of that keep. Rhaegar tapped his finger against the broad of a sword.

“And what do you think, squire, is more becoming in a king?” Time to test his subjects. If the son was as much a fool as the father, Rhaegar would know where not to look for aid. “Mercy? Or justness?

Face flushing at the unexpected demand, the squire bowed deep. “Your Majesty, I am young and know not much of the world, if I answer it shall be after my own mind.” A good beginning, Rhaegar allowed. He nodded. “The just king shall win the hearts of his maesters and septons with high ideals. There will be praise aplenty for righteous behaviour. The merciful king will win the love of his people. For the many know ills unnumbered and would fain have a kind word.”

“And, what shall I do?” Rhaegar asked yet again when the boy stopped speaking.

“The realm has known just rulers and kind leaders alike, Your Majesty. If it not be impertinent of me, I should like to make a suggestion.” He acquiesced. Willas Tyrell cleared his throat lightly. “I believe Your Majesty would best be served by being a wise king. Justice should go to those in want of it and mercy to the ones most needful.”

Holding back a smile, Rhaegar spoke his agreement. “From one so young comes a truth so well presented.”

Elia, who had not occupied her seat after rising, nodded towards Lord Tyrell. “You are fortunate in your son, my lord. I hope he will be an example to all.” Flushing with pleasure, the bumbling man turned to his son whose distinct discomfort was quite clear.

A whole procession of them followed, lords and minor lords and petty nobility. All come to bow to him and swear fealty. And many more had yet to arrive. Rhaegar spoke to each in part, whether the man had fought for Robert or him, he made no distinction. For the moment, he had need of them to declare themselves. And after, if the Seven were good, he could begin on his plan.

Elia turned her head towards him, offering a long look by way of warning when her own brother approached. Doran had been rather kind in arriving personally. “Good-brother,” Rhaegar greeted easily, leaning against the uncomfortable length of the throne. “We are glad you could make the journey.”

“And I, Your Majesty. It has been too long.” He embraced his sister even as he looked at Rhaegar. The man would want private words. Another annoyance. He could not wait for the day to be done. “Dorne held its breath knowing you in peril, my King, but now I see it was foolish of us to have done so. “ He chuckled. The court laughed in feigned relief. “A little storm cannot shake a dragon.”

A slight sharp smile bloomed on his lips. “Aye, your concern is appreciated.” If only the man knew. Rhaegar closed his eyes for but a moment. Storms could not shake the dragon. War-hammer, however, could deliver painful blows. But then again, Doran Martell would be thinking he deserved every last bit of pain.

And on the procession went.

When came at last the end, Rhaegar stood from his seat and walked down the steps. He offered Elia his arm. The Queen smiled at the lords and ladies, as cheerful as he was grave. Together they made for the doors, aware that whispers broke out behind them, like waves crashing into stony shores.

“You ought to have demanded Stannis Baratheon’s presence,” Elia said at long last once they were without. “Allow the sting of loss to pass and you shall have a furious Stag to deal with.” Had she been speaking of the man’s brother, Rhaegar might have agreed, but only because the boy knew no better in his young age.

“He hesitated.” The woman paused midstride. “When Robert rebelled, his brother hesitated. This is not a man who took his vows to be a farce. Furious he might be, but traitorous, I believe not. Especially not with the removal of Robert from the matter.”

“You say that as if men need reason to betray. He will find something. Best we make a lord of the younger one and bring him to court. He could be a page here.” Her fingers curled around his in warning. “House Baratheon is still strong.”

“Aye, and if I have the man’s head, then what will my people think? The King, they will whisper, was too craven to impart justice. He feared his throne taken from him.” He leaned his head slightly towards her, “I will not be that king. It would be cowardice in the cloth of justice to push Robert’s brother to his grave.”

“How can you be certain there shall be no more strife? Even allowing for the hesitation, he still chose his kin.” His Queen turned to look over her shoulder and sighed. “You think too highly of him.”

“And you too little. Baring his infant brother, we are the man’s closest kin for now.” Rhaegar was certain Renly Baratheon panned no mischief though, so he did not worry. “If I kill him, I lose the Stromlands. I want the Stormlands secure.”

“If that is your wish,” Elia allowed, pulling her hand away from his. “We could arrange for a betrothal. I would talk to my brother on your behalf.”

“He would accept, you think? Stannis will be, I imagine, not the man your niece would wish for.” An alliance for the bards to sing about, Rhaegar considered, the somewhat wicked thought leaving him amused.

“Which was why I proposed the younger Baratheon.” She sighed and shook her head. “I do not understand what you wish to gain from this though. How will wedding them be of any use to you?” He supposed it was not easy to see. “Do you not fear we would conspire?” her jest flew past him.

He smiled back lazily. “You may try, my Queen. But if you fail, you should not expect my mercy.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten you have another waiting for the chance. How could I?”

Amusement faded from his face. “The things you say…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s not expected that he would come to her given that the troubles of the realm never seemed to lessen and she would be on no aid in helping him shake off the load. But Lyanna was glad all the same for a friendly face. “You look like death warmed over,” she pointed out, scooting over to make place for him when he did not pick a chair to sit upon. The gesture was redundant, given the length and width of the bed, but she wanted him to feel welcome.

“The rose has thorns,” he noted duly, climbing in next to her, sitting close enough for her to feel his warmth, yet not touching her at all. “When did you become so sharp?” Lyanna nudged him gently, still resting against her mound of pillows.

“I have always been this sharp. It is no fault of mine you chose to ignore it, Your Majesty.” His sigh had het attention shift to his face from the wall upon which she’d pinned it. Lyanna had meant to amuse him. “Is aught amiss?”

“I have been Your Majesty all day long. Your Majesty this, Your Majesty that. Can a man not expect at least some succour in the privacy of his chambers?” She would have pointed out that the chambers were hers, but then he was her husband and the keep was his. Lyanna shrugged and placed a hand upon his forehead. “I am not ill.”

“I did not say you were?” Half a heartbeat later, she just had to ask. “Your head hurts, does it not?” He was prone to lying down with his eyes closed when the migraines appeared. He confirmed her suspicion after a short wait. “I’d wondered why you would come here. But you know, Your Majesty,” she smiled innocently at the sour look on his face, ”you cannot expect a tired woman like me to be of much use.”

She half expected that he would laugh along. But instead he opened his eyes and bore the brunt of his weight upon his elbows, rising himself. “Your very presence is a balm. Did you not learn that by now, Lyanna?” To be entirely honest, she had expected that he’d come to her for lack of any better a comfort in their tower.

“That is a kind thing to say.” At least to him she could be that.

“Kindness has naught to do with it. It is pure self-interest.” And how honest and open he was; Lyanna gave him a long look. His eyes returned it tenfold in intensity. She wished she knew what he was thinking about. There were times when his gaze held her arrested in such a manner that it gave rise to some fright. She could not read him as well as he wished. What other choice did she have but to cajole and please the best she could?

“Then I suppose you would not allow me to make for Winterfell with my brother.” Lyanna could have hit herself once she realised what it was she’d said. Out of all the inconsiderate suggestions she could have made. But the words were out.

He sat up, one hand moving to rest upon hers. Soon they were shoulder to shoulder. She stared at his face and he at the wall. “He told you to plead with me.” It was not a question, still she nodded. “I shan’t allow it. Not even if you truly plead. What is it that possessed your brother to make the demand?” Once more, she shrugged. “You are to remain here and your brother had best get used to that.”

“But why? For the moment, I can be of no use to you.” She could not even bed down with him for at least a moon turn. “If I travelled fast, I would only be gone for three moon turns. You would not even miss me. Except for the odd moment when your head hurts.”

“One moment too much,” he said, turning to face her. “In three moon turns you could already be journeying.” He was dangling that promise before her again. Lyanna smiled. She would have three moon turns to learn the rest of the tricks he kept up his sleeve. “Besides, how can I instruct you when you are leagues away?” She did not press when he clearly wished to speak of other matters.

“A good question, Your Majesty,” his glare gave her pause, “Rhaegar. I suggest letters. Your first one was a success.” With both herself and their daughter as Lyanna recalled. Her grin nearly dropped. Thankfully she caught herself just in time. “There, this is the solution I give to you.”

“That won’t do.” If she didn’t know any better, she would feel flattered at his refusal to relinquish her. Best not to allow any shred of hope, she told herself, squashing the warm feeling within her.

“Might be you are more greedy than self-serving,” she proclaimed softly, pushing her shoulder into his. “But I am willing to stay. You must promise though, that in three moon turns I will be learning my way around a ship.”

“Demanding witch,” he scoffed amiably, as he was dispositional to do when his headaches wore off. Once he’d claimed it was her voice doing strange things to his head and had gone on to say she was possibly some sort of witch. Of course, Lyanna had been more taken by the movement of his hands, and other parts of him, at the time to give much thought to that. She flushed at the memory and pulled away.

“Best not to goad me then,” came her warning. A ship, she told herself, was worth it all. “Witches can bring about a lot of ill-fortune.” Which she had done, if one were to think upon it. Lyanna tensed slightly.

“Nay. You could never bring me ill-fortune,” Rhaegar countered. “This witch, I have it on good authority, is my good friend. She would not bring me harm.”

“This King had better keep his word.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahaha, I have a new phone so since I'm so pleased with the whole thing, I actually wrote this with something resembling excitement. 
> 
> If you can guess what Rhaegar plans, you are one well-read individual and I congratulate you. If you cannot...erm think Wessex and the Danes.


	7. Waves

 

 

 

 

 

 

The acolyte pressed the warm cup into her hands. Lyanna wrinkled her nose yet again. “This concoction? I said I would not drink any of it.” The man did not answer straight away. His wont would not permit such ease in response, she suspected. “Take it away and feed it to the plants if you must.”

“My lady, my orders were clear. I am to ensure your good health,” he explained slowly, patent patience on display. “In order to do so, I’ve instructions to follow. Surely my lady understands. The Grand Maester prepared this with his own hands.” That did little to increase her trust in the man or his teacher.

“I recognise the taste of the overpowering herb,” she confessed after a few moments. “Nightshade has never been among my favourite tastes.” The acolyte regarded her with unperturbed calm. “If I pleaded, would it make any difference?”

“I doubt it. His Majesty’s order leaves little wiggle-room.” She sighed. One option was to write to him and tell him in no uncertain terms that she would not be drinking any strange brew from Pycelle’s hand. It would likely end in her having the concoction poured down her throat. She did not relish the prospect any more than she enjoyed being stuck in bed resting against a mound of pillows all day.

Lyanna glanced down into the steaming liquid. The scent wafted up to her nose, inundating her nostrils when she allowed it, taking it in along with a rush of cool air. She dared take a sip and grimaced at the taste. The more she ingested the woozier she’d grow, as were the effects of the concoction. She grumbled under her breath about that for a few moments, raising her gaze to the acolyte’s. “How long until I may leave this chamber?”

“Should matters progress as they have done up until now, I reckon it won’t be long before you are up and about, my lady.” He leaned slightly in to pick up a small tray he’d left upon the bed. “Pray do not overexert yourself until that point.”

“I would never.” He shot her a disbelieving glare. Lyanna chuckled. It was almost as though he’d spent time in the company of her brother. Otherwise she did not see how he might come to mistrust her statement. “I shan’t cause trouble.”

He nodded at that and took the half-empty cup from her hands and placed it just out of her reach. “You needn’t drink it all at once.” And a good thing that was. She doubted she’d be able to do that. “I will take my leave, my lady, if that should be all.”

Lyanna let him go. Not because she had no more complaints to put to him, but because she knew that too much complaining would only attract attention. Her aim remained to attract as little attention as possible. Which could be particularly difficult to do when she’d essentially become a subject of song though her own actions.    

The liquid gathering in the pit of her stomach was starting to take effect, clouding her mind enough for the weight of her own body to become too much to bear. Thankfully, the pillows at her back kept her more or less upright, as much as one could be that sitting in a bed. Still, it helped preserve the remnants of her dignity.

She would not have thought that a botched birthing experience would lay her down with such adamant inflexibility. And for so long. Sitting still and meditating had never been one of her best developed skills. Naturally, incapacitated and starved of companionship, for one could not consider the guard at one’s door a companion, she had little other option than to meditate. And the gods knew she had gone over her decisions over and over again, in hopes of building a more enduring justification for those choices.

It was much too late to take anything back, of course.

A series of sounds caught her attention, dragging her from the swirling thoughts. She slowly turned her head to the side, lazily inspecting the couple standing in the doorway. She recognised the Queen and her daughter. But her mind struggled to find a reason for which they would be there. Behind the woman she could see Jaime Lannister’s pale face. Her suspicion rose even further as she forced a small smile to accompany a bland greeting already shooting from her lips.

“Lady Lyanna,” Elia spoke, coming closer to her bedside. It was then that Lyanna noticed yet another person entering. A wetnurse holding Rhaegar’s youngest. The smile froze on her lips. “I hope we are not burdening you with our presence.”

“Not at all,” she managed after an unnecessarily long moment during which she feared she might not be able to answer at all, for the sight of the babe forced a knot in her throat. “Your Majesty is kind to attend my bedside.”

It might have been far smarter to profusely apologise to the woman before her, but then Elia Martell was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What could her apologies possibly gain her? Instead she moved her eyes to the little girl who was holding her mother’s hand, half-hiding behind her at that. “Good day, Your Grace.” The girl murmured a reply.

“Come, Rhaenys, there is no need to be shy. Lady Lyanna is clearly pleased to see you.” Rhaenys let go of her hand. The wetnurse placed the babe in Elia’s arm and she was excused for the time being. “This is Aegon,” she introduced the child. The babe was more interested in the dust particles dancing in the daylight.    

“He is a beautiful babe.” The words hurt. “And his brave older sister is just as beautiful herself.” If only they’d leave. The sight of the Queen holding her child cut as deep as any sword might.

The woman seemed to read her. “Would you like to hold him?” Nay, she would not. Lyanna felt her muscles scream in protest. “Here, make a cradle out of your arms.”

Why was she doing this? Lyanna met the other’s gaze, trying to discern the purpose of her insistence.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
